


Moderato Cantabile

by Niniel_Kirkland



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:40:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29659086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niniel_Kirkland/pseuds/Niniel_Kirkland
Summary: "He indeed found a text from Roderich. He had texted him a picture. Of a letter. Of a letter written in his penmanship. A picture of a letter he had written. To Roderich. In 1916. To tell him he loved him. And Roderich had found out.Holy fuck. ”
Relationships: Austria/Prussia (Hetalia)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	1. A Letter

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer : I'm not used to writing in English, excuse any typo/grammar error please.  
> Moderato Cantabile is the title of a novel by French author Marguerite Duras. It has little to do with our story - in fact it was just sitting there in my fics notebooks as a title I should use for a PruAus one day - but I like its melody (if you can pronounce it the Italian way, you'll understand what I mean).  
> Playlist on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0dnv0EI4jH3rEv7DplAYvi?si=ZJCRHblaQfWIKRRpV7chqg
> 
> I hope you enjoy your read!

Moderato Cantabile

_But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue._

_-_ Hamlet, _I, 2._

_._

_._

_._

_2021._

Roderich took a sip from his travel tumbler and let the bitterness of the coffee burn his tongue for a brief instant. The shy sun of an early June morning was peaking through white clouds and blessing his face with his gentle beams as he was walking through Vienna, breathing in the city with, and very much like his oxygen.

Getting through a global pandemic, the last few months had not been easy. But slowly, life had started to begin again, and to be exciting again. His beloved capital was slowly coming back to life with the early days of summer: people were chatting in cafés and sitting outside to enjoy a cold beer or a cocktail, some were sightseeing, students were enjoying their holidays with friends. Through the centuries, Roderich had known many crises. And no matter their nature or their intensity, crises always ended. And life always took over. Then it was up to Roderich to wonder and fall in love with life again.

This time was no different. While a disease affecting humans would not have affected his own health, he had still felt like his life had been put on hold for more than a year. It had, in a way, mostly because Austria, Europe and the world had been paralyzed for months. But on a personal level too. As any citizen, he had had to bid farewell to so many little things that usually made life enjoyable and interesting – going to the opera, to the theatre, see a movie, visit an exhibition in his favourite museums, loosing himself in every corner of the city he had long forgotten about, travelling abroad, listening to a concert, seeing friends, eating out. Now, he could rediscover and enjoy these simple pleasures again.

He had set up a new routine. In the morning, he would brew himself some coffee at home, which he would sip while reading any book he could find – he was too tired of screens, video calls and reading the news on his phone, thus had fallen in love all over again with literature and paperbacks, he had dug out some gold from his bookshelves. Then he would get ready and leave his apartment. He would stop on the way for a coffee to go, and walk anywhere he felt like going, where he had not been to in a while.

Today he was heading to the _Haus der Geschichte Österreich_ and he had not a long way to go. He stood for a while on Heldenplatz, watching people passing by, everyone looking relieved and happy that these dark days were finally behind them. His mind wandered towards the exhibition he was about to visit. He liked history museums. Which was odd, since they always tended to focus on tragedies he had personally lived or caused or watched happen – wars, mostly. But he loved it and could not help it. It was like reflecting on his own life, his own past, remembering where he came from and every past mistake that he had made, to learn from them and make sure he would never make them again.

During the months of lockdown, the _Haus_ had been planning an exhibition about the first World War. Initially planning to create an exhibition about the epidemics across the twentieth century, the length of the most recent pandemic had finally discouraged them to: people needed to hear about something else now. Still, they had dug out many items from their collections from WWI for the Spanish flu bit. They then took another angle. And they decided to show how times of destruction and horror had also been times of solidarity, compassion, and love.

Roderich shoved his empty mug in his bag and entered the museum, smiling at employees and tour guides. He began his tour with the first room, where the topic was briefly introduced – with a foreword, a map of the thematic rooms of the museum, and already a few artifacts from the trenches. And right there, in front of the very first showcase, he furrowed his brow in intense perplexity.

A handwritten letter was displayed, and the caption said it had been written by an unidentified German soldier in 1916, somewhere on the Eastern Front, but never sent to his loved one – “probably a brother”, it said. The paper was folded and torn, the handwriting was messy, clumsy, nervous, and almost undecipherable; the ink had faded over the hundred years the letter had known before, God knows how, ending up in this exhibition. But Roderich barely noticed these faults. The penmanship looked familiar. He had already seen it before. In fact, he recognized it instantly, his eye had been drawn to it like iron would have been attracted to a magnet.

Because not only was the handwriting familiar, but the letter was addressed to him, _Roderich Edelstein_. And it was tender, even though most likely written with bottled despair as ink and a striking fear of dying with words left unspoken for a quill.

_Roderich,_

_Snow has been falling for a week now. We are outnumbered and freezing. I don’t think we have much time and I’m hurrying the fuck up to write this letter. I’d leave but I refuse to give up my men. Ludwig promises he is sending us back-ups, and I want to believe he won’t forget us and let us die in this God forsaken place while he wins on the Western front. Nonetheless, in case I wouldn’t make it – we know it can happen, Specs, don’t we? – I want you to know_ [a few words had been crossed out] _that_ [another sentence had been covered in black, angry lines of ink] _I can’t die without telling you this. You mean the world to me. You always did, you will always do. Take care and stay alive for me, will ya?_

Roderich stayed a long while in front of the letter in its fancy showcase. His mind was completely blank as his eyes kept running through the words again, and again, and again. It made no sense. And an awkward amount of time had passed when he finally was able to move again. His hand was a bit shaking when he grabbed his phone in his back pocket and tried his best to take a close-up picture of the letter. Then, not feeling like going through the rest of the exhibition, he exited the museum absentmindedly, his heart racing in his chest. _You mean the world to me_. His knuckles were turning white from holding the phone too tight. _You always did, you will always do_. He had to make a call.

.

.

.

 _Berlin_.

Gilbert stopped running at 30 minutes on his watch, and started to stretch, quite pleased with himself. If several lockdowns, quarantines, and sanitary crisis had had any silver lining, it had to be this: he had grown fond of outdoors sports again. Not being able to hit the gym for months, he had had to find other ways to work out, and running had been the simple answer. It was different, but it was good enough – especially now that the weather was so nice.

It was a beautiful summer morning on Tiergarten and Gilbert noticed with a smile that people were slowly coming back to the city, sharing public spaces again. It would be a beautiful summer in Berlin. He sat on the grass to stretch his legs. The steady pain was starting in his calf muscles when the music suddenly shut down in his headphones, right in the middle of REM’s _Überlin_. Someone was calling him. He sighed. They’d better have a hell of a good reason to disturb his morning routine.

He frowned when he reached for his phone in his pants’ pocket and saw the silly picture of Roderich appearing on the screen. He hardly ever called him. Gilbert assumed it was important. And answered the call, not yet knowing he would very much regret it a few moments later.

“Roddy!”, he said in his most cheerful, not a all out of breath voice. “Haven’t seen you since the plague! Whassup?”

“Gilbert, hi, hum –,” his voice sounded very awkward. “I’m fine, I, uh. I found something that belongs to you.”

“Finally got around to clean that attic of yours? Nice! What is it?”

“No. I found it in a – a museum.”

He frowned. A _museum_? How the hell did they steal anything from him? In _Vienna_?

“Ok… And what is it?” he repeated.

“I texted you a picture. And I think we need to talk.”

“Hang on, I’ll check it out.”

He indeed found a text from Roderich. He had texted him a picture. Of a letter. Of a letter written in his penmanship. A picture of a letter he had written. To Roderich. In 1916. To tell him he _loved_ him. And Roderich had _found out_.

“Holy fuck!”

He threw his phone without even thinking. It had always been Gilbert’s speciality. Got a problem? Make it disappear as quickly as possible. Nice job, Gilbert. The phone crashed on the grass with a muffled thud, a few meters away from him. Then he realised it was the dumbest thing he could possibly have done. Or was it? If his phone was broken, he would have to get a new one. He would change his number. Roderich would never contact him again and they would never have _the talk_ they were about to have before he tossed his phone. But let’s be real, Roderich would not give up that easily. He had centuries ahead of him, after all. So, Gilbert got up and picked up his phone, before sitting up again to keep stretching – at least it gave him an excuse to have a painful expression on his face.

“Still there, Rod?”

“Yes – What the fuck was that?”

“Easy there, _Herr_ Edelstein! You kiss your _Mutti_ with that mouth?”

“What happened?”

“I dropped my phone.”

“I know, right? I was pretty shocked myself to read that. A hundred years, seriously…”

“Roderich.” He tried to stop him.

“For heaven’s sake, Gil, why didn’t you say anything?!”

“Roderich, please.”

“What?”

“Do you really want to have this conversation over the phone?” he asked in a low, sad voice.

“…”

“Roddy – Roderich? Say something.”

“I’m not even sure I want to have this conversation,” the Austrian finally answered.

“Well, we… Don’t have to?”

“Gil.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, we do. I had to try.”

“What do you suggest?”

“I don’t know. I guess I could… Come to Vienna. If you want me to.”

“Yes. I guess I do.”

“I’ll go home and pack then.”

“Tell me when you land.”

“I’ll rather take the train.”

“As you wish. Tell me when you’re here, anyway.”

Roderich hung up and Gilbert remained sitting there, in the middle of Tiergarten. People kept passing him by, unaware that right there, in his dark stormy cloud of a brain, a centuries-old tragedy was playing all over again. He sighed and got up eventually. He walked home, restarting his music, only choosing a moodier playlist – thankfully, he had lots of those.

“Oh, man. I’m so screwed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haus der Geschichte Österreich : Museum of Austrian History in Vienna.  
> Heldenplatz: square in Vienna's Hofburg.  
> Tiergarten : a huge park in Berlin  
> Mutti : mum (German)


	2. Vienna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gilbert reluctantly packs for Vienna, not sure what to expect once he gets there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for comments and kudos on the first chapter! I hope you'll find this one as entertaining. As always, feedback is highly appreciated :)

In a vague and useless attempt to feel better about the whole thing – and not at all _hope_ that anything good would come out of it – Gilbert tried to reassure himself with the fact that it could have been _much_ worse. But the fact that Roderich chose, or even wanted to talk about it was looking favourable.

He shrugged while packing his underwear. What else could Roderich have done, for fuck’s sake? How else could he have reacted? It was not like he could have decided to never speak to him again, or march on Prussia, invade and annex it to restore his flouted honour, was it? A faint, sad smile curled up his lips. Those were the days… Gilbert sighed over a neatly folded pair of socks.

Still, Roderich had chosen to talk. While he could have never spoken a word about it. He was alone in Vienna. And to be honest, he had to be the only person to ever go visit goddamned museums nowadays. Nobody would have noticed. Nobody would have known, if he had shut his prissy mouth, just this once. But no. Roderich _had_ to talk. And somehow, the fact that he wanted to talk about it instead of pretending that it never happened and he never knew was… Nice. Perhaps they had finally reached that point where they could – and were willing to – start acting like civilized people. Maybe they would not make a big deal out of it, in the end. They would just talk. Set some ground rules and boundaries. And never mention it ever again.

Gilbert closed his suitcase and rolled it to his flat’s front door. He didn’t pack a lot, because he still could not picture “the talk” going any other way than fast, awkward, and unsatisfactory for him. As far as he knew, he would be flying back to Berlin in no time. But still, he wouldn’t want to be caught unprepared if things were going better than expected. Ok, _way_ better than expected. He was about to take a night train to Vienna. For the first time in centuries, he didn’t feel eager to leave Berlin for Austria.

He sighed again when he closed the door of his apartment and left the building, his suitcase tagging along on Unter den Linden. He walked to the _Hauptbahnhof_ , in a much-needed attempt to clear his head. Walking around Berlin, instead of giving in to the oh-so-practical temptation offered by public transports, had always had this magical effect on his mood. He felt lighter, a little bit happier. Even when his city, his heart had been destroyed, burned to the ground, left in ruins, Berlin had always been there, had always been home. And whenever he was off to Vienna, he always knew Berlin would wait for him, and welcome him home once he would come back.

Gilbert was old, and as such, he felt entitled to cling to well-established habits: taking the train whenever he could avoid planes, for example – his chivalry phase was not over yet, humans were not _supposed_ to fly, dammit – and traveling by night. He had taken the night train to Vienna countless times. He usually spent the whole journey wide awake, looking at the sleeping landscapes and stations through the window. At least, this time, it would give him an excuse to delay _the_ talk – he would catch up on a few hours of sleep first. Wearing facemasks in public transports was still mandatory, so it was no use trying to sleep on the train anyway.

He found his seat in the first-class carriage and felt grateful to notice he was alone. He put his luggage aside, sat down by the window and pressed his forehead against the glass, still fresh in this mild summer evening. He kept trying to focus on something else as the train departed from Berlin, but it was useless: all he could think about was that letter, and most importantly _how_ the hell it had ended up in an Austrian museum. He remembered writing it, though it was kind of a blur. In his memory, Russia and 1916 looked like a combination of snow, mud and pain, cold and hunger, blood and gunshots. He remembered reading it once his fever had ended and feeling glad that he had not sent it. His time had not yet come. He should have torn it to pieces and thrown them away. He would have, but he didn’t want to jinx it. And he had kept it with him, at all times, especially during the Second World War. To remind himself that he had survived, once again, when he had lost all hopes. And to send it, should a worst despair come his way. Or to be found with it in his uniform if he had come to die – he had figured that somehow, Roderich would have know, that Ludwig would find it and give the letter to him, or tell him, at least. He owed that to his older brother, after all. In short, Gilbert could not stand the idea of dying without telling Roderich how he felt, one way or another. Which was… Stupid, to say the least, since it was quite alright by him to live for another hundred years and remain silent.

He didn’t remember losing the letter. Only _discovering_ he had lost it, in the early years of the fifties. What had happened to it between the end of the war, his realisation, and its arrival in the museum collections, he could not really fathom. If he was being honest with himself, he didn’t remember what had happened to _him_ very clearly after the war. _Preu_ _ß_ _en_ had soon ceased to exist, and Gilbert Beilschmidt had needed time to adjust and find himself. Being East-Germany could simply not do the trick for him. And he had slowly made his peace with being “just” Gilbert, a regular – but awesome, if he said so himself – guy who just happened to neither age, nor contract human diseases, nor die.

Obviously, finding out this letter’s itinerary over the past seventy years had thus not been a priority. He had figured he had lost it, or it had simply disappeared, like so many of his belongings he had misplaced or that had been destroyed in obscure circumstances over the centuries. It just _happened_ , sometimes. Besides, forty years was a pretty decent life-expectancy for a letter that had been written in the trenches and had crossed many battlefields. He had completely forgotten about it, until that fateful phone call.

.

.

.

Vienna was asleep when the train stopped in Wien Hauptbahnhof. He texted Roderich. _I sent a car_ , he texted back almost instantly. And Gilbert indeed found his driver, holding a piece of paper that read _Beilschmidt_. They drove silently through the streets of Vienna, all the way to the most ancient part of the city, which Roderich had never managed to leave. The driver dropped him off in front of a dashing building from the nineteenth century, and Gilbert’s first instinct was too look up. Roderich lived on the last floor. Some light was peering through the blinds of the windows. He had waited for him.

He sighed, tipped the driver decently and entered the building’s hallway. He glanced at the elevator’s wrought iron gates in disdain. He took the stairs – luckily his suitcase was not heavy. He would be out of breath when he would get to that last floor. It was all about saving some more seconds before they discussed the letter and everything it implied.

When he got to the sixth floor, the front door of Roderich’s flat was open, inviting him in. He hesitantly stood on the threshold a bit too long. He shrugged after a good minute and finally stepped inside, gently closing the door behind him. He kicked off his shoes by the entrance, on the neat wooden floor. Entering further, he glanced around the place. He was now standing in the living-room. On his right, the doors leading to the bathroom and the bedrooms – Roderich’s and the guest’s one. In front of him, immense bookshelves between the windows. On his left, the open kitchen, organized around an island surrounded by high stools. Beyond that, a long dining table was facing a glass door opening to a balcony that offered a proper view on the city.

Roderich had been leaning on the kitchen island before Gilbert arrived, a glass of wine in one hand. He was not wearing his glasses, his violet eyes more piercing than ever. His brown locks were a little bit longer than Gilbert remembered. He was wearing a white button-down but had rolled the sleeves above his wrists and opened the first two buttons. His dark blue jeans were folded above the ankles and he had navy blue espadrilles on. _Great_. Having a hipster version of Roderich in front of him would _most definitely_ make everything easier for Gilbert.

“Hello, Gil.” The silvery voice said, clear and quiet. 

Roderich was coming towards him, and Gilbert could not move. His muscles and bones frozen in the middle of the living-room, his hoarse voice barely managed to utter a low:

“Hi, Roderich.”

.

.

.

* * *


End file.
